The pen is an instrument.
Like I am an instrument to
  rhythm.
Therefore my instruments
are rhythm's.                        I don't even
Therefore the pen is            feel like I'm
rhythm writing.                   the one
Everyone that's with my    writing
heart, watch as pen slides  these
to rhythm.                            writings.
I wish for no credit to
myself,
        rather the rhythm.
       The music of movement inspires me.

God speaks through the dance
of life.

Ya, no-
I'm certainly not really all that good at what I do.
my words land in mud
but I'm calmed by the quicksand.
and please just swallow me Earth-
your demands are too oppressive
and your reasoning too foreign.

Comfort has distanced far but from the ghosts
of the skies.
and any touch I am gifted are shoals in drought.
like eternal fasting.
but I never mean to appeal to pity, yet it can appeal to me.
and sometimes I am strong, but it's in vain.
and sometimes I am weak, but I lack further.

At least I can tell it to your face I am not depressed.
Nor cry a tear unrighteous.
Nor will I die from my own hand-
Ya, no. not me.
I know the privilege that is life.
I can at least be proud of that, right ?

And for when I sink, my mind keeps begging the question, "what happens in May?".

shall I synthesize your imagination ?
electrical impulses,
like singing sparkling stars
or a dive in lush deep green turquoise sea cities.
the complete notes there,
the ground has placed,
all in where we shall play.

the diatribes, in love,
of the framers and constructors
shall build and destroy
upon us the corrections.
do we trust
angel's blueprints
and shepherd's paths?
Well,
no matter,
loving phosphorous
flows in canals of
poetry and marble
aqueducts like our veins.
cathedrals weren't
built on nonsense,
but truth.
yet still the heaven's creator
is just
less than
discernible.
hiding eternally within
the architecture.
and I would not have it any
other way.

Christ said our tongues were to be our swords,
but I honestly preferred a scalpel.
I mean, he said it was cool.

and make hands...
because the physician is at work.

for i speak to his name
for his name
of his name.

and all the wounds of
Silence will scream
until the hurt perish;
like sizzling flesh.

and what of wound's death ?
shall it be made undone ?
therefore health ?
a scar to remember,
and a scar to bare:
the marker of how many
times we have become
healed ?

time will truely tell all and heal all.